


By The Sword

by thewickedloki



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedloki/pseuds/thewickedloki





	By The Sword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nayanroo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayanroo/gifts).



She was happy now. He could see that so clearly, so vividly, from the small curve of her upturned mouth to the gentle caress of a loose strand of hair against her cheek. There were no more stains of tears spilling from pools in her eyes, no more heaving breaths. She was with her loved ones, and not him. She would have comfort.

Loki watched Sif in his memory. He allowed himself that one small agony as the raised voices of warriors rang in his ears. This was Fólkvangr, the field of the host, where he was among Freyja's chosen. The Midgardian legends had been wrong, as he was not there to begin Ragnarok. His shudders of pain had never rocked the cosmos as poison dripped onto his face, though he wished for that suffering in the truest and darkest corner of his heart, if it meant he would see Sif one more time. That was not possible.

But she would be happy now. There would be no more tears. One day, perhaps he would join his brother Thor for a final drink. Perhaps he would see Ragnarok, fight at Odin's side as his son. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to have died by the sword.

It couldn't be that bad. She was happy now.

It couldn't be that bad.

It couldn't be that bad. He was at peace now.

He would never be happy. He might, however, be at peace. Perhaps one day he would sit at Odin's table as his son, and some of the old hatred would melt away as surely as the snowcaps on the mountains far to the north on the day she'd first told him her secret. For once, he hadn't already known what she was going to say, and had delighted her with his surprise. Of course she loved him. How could he not have known? Even then, he wasn't happy. At peace, but not happy. 

That wasn't his nature. Sif had known Loki for most of her life, had loved him for nearly as long, and she understood in some primal part of her soul that Loki was never truly happy. There was always a longing, a dissatisfaction more accurately, that she had never been able to untangle. No one had. That was simply Loki. Loki was the god of mischief in the stories because nothing was ever quite right. Something was always amiss, and he would use his guile and cunning to trick others into fixing what was wrong, into making the universe right once more.

But that never made him happy. There was a darkness to his eyes, always, a hesitation to even the most serene smiles. Loki was... Loki.

She watched him in her mind. She allowed herself that one agony as she drank up after mug of ale far stronger than she remembered, or perhaps not strong enough. It wasn't making much sense anymore. Nothing seemed to make much sense without Loki to laugh at her and tease her around to discovering the truth. Everything was muddled and blurred, and she was not getting drunk.

Sif couldn't quite remember where the ale was coming from, but in the halls of Valhalla, it never seemed to be finished.

Perhaps it was worse than she'd thought to die by the sword.


End file.
